


Heavenly Waters

by nukawhit



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: F/F, Slow Burn, it's a date. this whole thing is fucking DATE., pwp but then i got feelings, smut tags to come /giggle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-26 14:50:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9907112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nukawhit/pseuds/nukawhit
Summary: Long before they found the Jefferson Memorial, Catherine and Madison went stargazing, lost in the ruins of the Capitol.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! so this is a thing, basically all my feelings about catherine and madison. Pre-canon, long and rambly. If that's not your bag, totally cool. I just enjoy fleshing out under developed characters. v.v 
> 
> It's divided into 3 parts, and I'll be posting them over the next few days. hope you enjoy & thank u for reading <3

_2254, August. Post-Nuclear fall._

Another terminal, another set of rusted locks, and it turns out that cracking the last few letters of the terminal’s security key proves to be a truly laborious process, one far more tedious than Catherine expects. It’s _doable_ , yes, she knows this – she’s breezed through getting seven of the eleven places correct, so far – easy enough after locking down the appropriate prefix and suffixes. Now it’s just a case of keying in the correct root word to unlock the damn thing, and let her pass through the gridded, heavy security door to take her back to the pitch site in the west wing of the Capitol Building.

Catherine squints in the low light, eyes straining to try make out the letters on the terminal – and she sighs, long, trying to expel the frustration in her chest. Busting a centuries old pre-war security code is tiresome in and of itself -- but it’s only exasperated further when the all the power in the Capitol Building’s west wing’s decided to go kaput so she can barely see the damn keyboard – even with emergency lighting online, albeit flickering and dim. The keys are stiff to the touch, caked in grime; the texture gritty and rough under Catherine’s fingertips, grainy like fine rubble settling. Reminds her she’s lucky she’s got the terminal running at all, and the generator she fished out of a store room nearby still holds up. Even if the terminal’s being difficult.

Still, though, the terminal waits on her input, scan lines moving slow down the screen.

Finding the right keys, Catherine starts working through root words again, typing:

 _> INFESTATION_  
Entry denied.  
[7/11 correct]

Three attempts remaining.

Her shoulders slack, rolls her eyes; scolds herself. Of course going for _fester_ was a mistake. Easy to imagine it plastered all over the Old World holofilms and comic books, as more and more media painted propaganda pieces for the war effort; likely a part of the pre-war vernacular as much as _nuka_ and _commie_ were. Way, _way_ too obvious.

She pauses, thinking, when a flash of brilliance crosses her mind, and her eyes brighten, fingers launching to the keys-- types sporadic into the keyboard, certain she’s got it right this time.

_> INCARNATION_

The terminal disagrees.

Entry denied.  
[7/11 correct]

Two attempts remaining.

“Oh _c’mon_ , bucko, give me _something_ ,” Catherine murmurs, fingers tapping keys with no hesitation, fast but deliberate, her weight on the last few presses - when a harsh negatory beep sounds in response. “God. _Damn_. Really?”

Frustration edges her whisper, and the terminal remains locked, scanlines still rippling down the screen.

One attempt remaining.

Catherine gnaws on her lip, turns her head. Searches the space around her for something, _anything_ to hint at the password, at some kind of clue. But everything’s dust, here; forgotten. Esoteric. Lost in time. She should’ve expected it; should’ve brought some grenades down with her in case she needed to blow the door to get through – but even if she’d tried, the door’s way too tough; clad with sturdy, military grade steel.

It’s understandable no one’s gotten this far – the Capitol Building is a sprawling, crumbled labyrinth of countless dead ends and endless running corridors, all spotted with radiation hotzones with their half-life only just barely beginning to decay; scattered with the remains of people who’ve tried to get this deep into the complex, get to the Rotunda. So it makes sense that everything’s locked tight, that no one’s gotten this far. Access would be ideal, though; the Rotunda links everything together, and having a faster, safer route back to camp would make her morning sweeps easier.

More than the bringing grenades, though, part of her wishes she’d brought Madison along with her. Catch her just as her watch finished, give her a hand with this. But – that’s not fair, when she’s been on her watch for hours prior; keeping the turrets in check, keeping her and James safe as they slept. Brandishes the thought, shuts her eyes; it’s James’ thinking rubbing off on her. Madison Li is more than her skills, her knowledge with the sciences. Needs sleep too. And rightly so.

She can’t help but admit Li’s been something of a crutch for her and James, in the past few months they’ve all been travelling together – with Madison cracking any and every terminal without blinking an eye. Bringing mainframes alive with the slightest of ease, turning with that expectant, jovial smirk, the arch of her bow, cocky and confident.

Catherine smiles at the memory. Loves it when she’s cocky.

She pockets the thought, tucks it away fondly. Returns her attention back to the terminal, and takes a few moments to deliberate the password again.

It’s a stretch, but trying _infatuation_ , of everything, proves effective – much to Catherine’s disbelief. The terminal unlocks, granting her access. She quirks a brow.

Romantic, for a security terminal.

Catherine watches as the maglocks release, watches them whir and spin slow, almost reluctant; maybe the terminal isn’t ready to let go so soon, isn’t willing to see her leave.

 _We’ve all gotta move on sometime, pal,_ Catherine thinks with faux-remorse, pushing up the terminal’s keyboard, heaving her pack over her shoulder. Ponders at her thinking, briefly, as she – _again_ – catches herself assigning anthropomorphic traits to inanimate objects, scoffing in second hand embarrassment. An old habit picked up from years wandering alone, needing to have a connection with someone – or something – in the miles and miles of nothingness consuming swaths of post-war America.

And the farther she goes south of home --- down the eastern seaboard, it’s almost as though she sees the years ticking back to the Great War; the impenetrable beds of radiation, the scorched earth, the pockets of civilisation becoming fewer and further between. Unavoidable to feel the hopelessness it brings becoming larger and more prominent, looking for something to take it away, even for a moment. Even if it’s approval from something that’s not alive to save her sanity. Maybe it’s not so strange this far south.

Catherine mentally shakes the thoughts away, homing her attention on the Rotunda, now open for her perusal. Almost done. Final sweep for the morning.

She steps through the corridor, catches the change from chipped concrete to crackled marble beneath her heavy combat boots, sounds of her steps shifting from a dull thud to a hollow, dry echo; one that bounces from the high walls, reverberates out. Jagged lines trace the edges of the rotunda as she looks up, the outlines of crumbled silhouettes protruding from the walls, obscured by the darkness in the corners.

The edges serve as a harsh contrast to the centre of the Rotunda, where sunlight filters through the cracks of the dome’s half-caved ceiling, where singed white-yellow light plays gentle over the cracked marble beneath, gleaming in the stray patches free of dirt. Catherine stands, shotgun raised, searching for threats – but instead finds herself calm, relaxed, watching as wisps of dust pass slow through the open space.

Slowly, she lowers her weapon.

There's something comforting in the way the dust floats, in the way each particle swirls under the light. Moving together like old world dancers in ballrooms, illuminated from the spotlights above. She watches the particles move, dozens and dozens of them caught in an almost timeless elegance; each tiny speck pulling loose threads of her memory, pulling them slow, back to her time inside the Abbey.

Back to moments before morning sermon, where she’d see dawn pour in from the tall, painted windows of the Cathedral, catching the dust just the same.

Dancers swirled there too, and not just in the dust. It’s not hard for Catherine to recall figures moving fast and lively in celebration for a variety of reasons in the Abbey, all through the year; but the one she recalls most vividly was her appointment ceremony. Dawn. Spring. Lilacs just coming into bloom, winding through the cracks in the walls, grey-green leaves, dull purple petals.

Where she was given the title of _Apostle_ by her priest, at long last – where she offered her rights of mission and left the Abbey, heading south; to try and better what remnants remain of the Old World –

– But this is _not_ the Abbey, Catherine reminds herself, jaw set stern, scolding. The feeling of homesickness is sharp when it arrives, a strong pang in her chest; but also one she knows is transient, fleeting, craving for what’s familiar, safe. But the Abbey of the Road is a decade old chapter in life, from before her hair grew silver and her skin knew the true radiance of the sun; and she’s better out here, biking south to help those lost in the world.

She’s surprised at how well wandering lonesome suited her, for a time – with nothing but the dirt road stretching in front of her, with no mouths to listen ramble and meander, or minds rigid and unwilling to open up to newer pastures. Although still longing for that sense of being the Abbey offered like nowhere else. But she’s found something new, now; the foundations of a life between. With minds that hold a shared vision for the future, bodies truly wanting to change the world for the better.

She finishes her sweep of the Rotunda, drawing empty for threats. Expected, really, with the locks.

Another set of maglocks take her back from the Rotunda through to the West Wing, and the route back proves quick, as expected. Only a few minutes and she’s back to the Capitol’s Hall of Columns, where her and the others are settled. It’s the side of the Capitol Building she’s much more familiar with, where she recognises the crumbled fixtures down the halls; knows their gaunt, half-there faces from being camped out here for the past few weeks, lining the walls.

A turret turns sharp toward her on entry, but Catherine’s complacent as it tracks her; looks once, continues her stride. Knows it’s friendly, one of theirs, but also knows the weak spots in the hull if it malfunctions, aware of her gun saddled over her back, snug in its holster.

Looking through the dark, their encampment’s control station draws near, marked by a flickering, static floodlight situated at the top of the hall.

Camp is nothing more than a few crumpled bedrolls and a terminal running off a noisy prewar generator – but it’s home, for now. With piles upon piles of burnt books pulled from the offices for research, stacks of holotapes packed pre-war food, strewn packs of gear. There’s a couple turrets dotted from the catwalks, steadied by sandbags, protecting their position; two more than Catherine anticipates to see. Madison must’ve gotten them working again overnight, and Catherine catches her sat in the centre of the control station – operating the terminal, leaning back in her creaking office chair, gnawing at her nail, looking lost in thought.

At first it's surprising to see her up and awake already, when her watch was only a few hours prior; then it's expected, because it's _Madison_. Woman's a walking powerhouse, shoulders hunched over her terminal, working and wired like the world’s on fire all over again. Propagates all expectations of her character.

It’s great for the folk that have her working for them, where she exceeds all expectations of her capabilities; her knowledge, her usefulness – and proving to be an invaluable asset. One that’s hard to relinquish, as they discovered back in her hometown, when she dared to leave.

Not so great for Madison herself, though; as Catherine approaches, she sees dark circles deep set under tired eyes, her skin looking pallid despite the usual warm undertones beneath - with packets and packets of empty sweetener laying crumpled next to her terminal, a cup of coffee in hand.

It’s Madison stepping back into old habits, learned ones – (taught ones?) – where she can’t seem to value herself beyond what she produces. They’re habits that pain Catherine every time she sees them, seeing Madison overwork herself with no respite.

“Morning, Madison,” Catherine greets, voice soft.

“Morning,” Li replies, darts her eyes up to Catherine and returns to her terminal. Something’s playing on her, and it shows; Catherine sees it in the way her shoulders are hunched and the way she stiffly shifts in her seat. Hears it in the way her tone is clipped, distracted -- although not pointed and sharp in the way it would be if it was anything to do with her directly.

Catherine angles her head, looks back down the corridor behind. She lingers, eyes searching the hall in the low light. Checks the beds, the ration station. Returns her sight to Madison when she turns up empty, half-wincing as she does. Catherine’s tone is careful. “Let me _guess_ …”

“He’s gone again,” Madison says, sighing, leaning back in her chair. Props her elbow up on the rattling, cracked plastic armrest, head rested against her knuckles. “Though _this_ time,” she continues, hand pushing from her face, gesturing as her posture straightens, raises her voice as her frustration edges through, “ _This_ time – he left us during _his_ turn taking watch. He left – _all_ the turrets unmanned while you went out to check the parameter. And while I was asleep.”

<<

Madison pauses, and the harsh edge to her voice subsides. Li looks to her, voice low and edged with disappointment. “We could have been exposed for hours, Catherine.”

“Did he leave a message?” Is all Catherine asks, finding herself working through the motions that come when James decides to take off, but Madison’s less than willing to play along.

Instead, Madison angles her head to Catherine with a terse half smile, a single brow arched; like she’s hit a trigger button that’s brought her stress up another level. “Of _course_ ,” Li manages as she leans forward, ejecting a holotape from her terminal and setting it neatly on the desk.

Catherine sighs, discouraged. “I’m hoping he had a good reason.”

“Oh, he thinks he has a _brilliant_ reason, Catherine,” Li quips, voice dry and sarcastic. “But sound reasoning is not one of his strong suits, and rarely beneficial for all other parties involved. As you and I are coming more and more aware of.”

Catherine feels the edge of her frustration, almost feels responsible – it was her idea to bring him into the fold, knowing that James takes little heed to anyone’s crusade but his own, and as they near the old Jefferson Memorial, it’s becoming more and more pronounced.

“ _God_ ,” Catherine murmurs, betrays a dry chuckle; “Do I even want to listen through it this time?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll save you the expense,” Madison says as she props her elbows back on the desk, threads her fingers, rests her chin. “In short, from his view of things – some hunch he heard over the radio about a ‘Brotherhood’ settling to the North West of the city was worth tagging along with some geo-scout team over, and paramount enough to leave his two fellow project leads behind in the process. _Charming_. Don’t you think?”

Catherine looks away, stares out briefly before looking back, thoughtful. “The… _Brotherhood_? I’ve not heard of a group like that before.”

“Neither have I,” Madison responds, leaning back into her chair. “Perhaps he’s seen them before. Not that we really know where _he’s_ from either, even after all this time.”

Catherine inhales, eyes close as she brings the anger she shares with Madison inward; doesn’t let it brim to the surface like Madison does, even though she’s more than justified in letting it out. Another one of the slightest of differing dynamisms Catherine continues to pick up between them, even in the months they’ve spent together, they differ in their approaches to nearly everything -- in the sciences, in interaction and in method – but operate from the same place.

James is on a metric all of his own, though – one sporadic and impossible to truly gauge, for better or worse. Because while he’s smart, driven, like Madison – he’s flighty and impulsive where she’s regimented and controlled. Disappears out into the rugged Wasteland unprepared, sudden and without warning – and hard to plan around. Nearly always needs her and Madison to come searching for him days later, when he doesn’t come back; usually needs picking from some derelict building, pulled from a the binds of a raider gang that nearly gets him for good.

It’s always worth it for him, in his eyes, whatever intel they do and don’t find; no matter what the outside effects may be, who it might effect.

“We can handle ourselves pretty well, though, Madi, you and me,” Catherine offers, diplomatic, pulling up an old office chair to sit up near her. She hears it creak under her weight as she settles, keeps her tone calm as she shifts her weight, leans forward. “It’s _him_ I worry about. At least he's with people this time, I suppose.”

Li looks to her, nodding her head in in the slightest agreement, but doesn’t reply. Unlike her.

 _“Do you think we’ll ever figure him out?”_ Catherine thinks of asking – wants to ask, honestly, for Madison’s read on him – but bites it back as soon as it comes into her mind. Unfair to ask when Madison’s upset, frustrated like this. Besides, they’ve already had talks like this, her and Madison, in the times he’s been gone before. Catherine’s hunch is he’s from some kind of Vault further inland – where information is stagnant and dated, presented with a stagnant caricature of the world above ground. It’d explain the secrecy, the way he draws all his expertise from woefully pre-war sources: the way he calls Hopkins ‘ _Baltimore’_ , and the Capital Wasteland ‘ _Washington’_.

Madison’s explanation is always more blunt when offered, though, and nearly always some dryly delivered variant of “I think he’s maniacal prodigy – with the small problem of having his priorities wildly misplaced,” with the being an obvious understatement to her.

But now, Catherine sees it’s further than just frustration for Madison, just an annoyance at his temperamental nature – and it shows in the way she decides to say nothing at all. In how all she can do is heave a heavy sigh in the silence, lulls her head back, shuts her eyes; before she brings her head back to her palms, elbows propped on the desk to keep her head up. Says nothing.

Catherine watches, and seeing Madison like this – it sets something off in her. It’s a feeling of acute ire, she thinks, but not just at James leaving again – but at how it’s making Madison feel; how it’s leaving her sleep starved and fatigued, frustrated and worn down. It’s… surprising. Not unwelcome, not unwanted. But surprising.

“Well, anything past the Potomac is a day’s trek there back through the metros, easy,” Madison says at last, but her words are edged with a dry, bitter anger, voice snappish and irritated. “So -- he’s going to be gone for at least that long,” she continues, “When he _knows_ our water rations are low and we need to press onto the Memorial and he just -- _expects_ us to drop it all, to just sit on our hands and wait until he just decides to come back – ?”

“Hey,” Catherine murmurs, moves her hand; settles it gently over Madison’s, and squeezes light. Her voice comes through soft, forgiving; tries to settle her. “Take a second.”

She pauses to watch for Madison’s responses, keeps the contact between them; her thumb brushes the back of Madison’s hand, running light over the skin. Sees Madison’s eyes close, sees her sigh, shoulders slacken.

“I’m sorry,” Madison says, flicking her sight over Catherine, voice quick. “I’m just – _he_ just,” she pauses, breathes; takes a moment, sighing. “He just throws everything off schedule. And never gives _any_ forewarning before it happens. So I can’t prepare.”

“I know,” Catherine says, voice sincere. “It’s unfair.”

It’s no lie. Being as regimented as she is – meticulous planning and scheduling is how she’s learnt to do the things she does, from particle fusion and dabbles in chemistry – and how she does them well. Saw it in the marvels of power management and proprietary hydroponics systems that has Hopkins, her hometown, wired and alive – and it’s to Madison’s credit. So it _is_ frustrating to see someone so brilliant – quite unlike anything Catherine’s seen in the miles and miles she’s trekked south for the Abbey of the Road – being met with a source of near constant disorder, changing how she operates.

It’s a hallmark of any budding scientist, herself included: adhere to the trusted process.

So – with the values of the Abbey, Catherine thinks of how she can help brighten her.

“But, y’know, Jamie’s not the only one who’s got a hunch about what’s out there…” Catherine says, trails off, quirks a brow. Sees Madison look to her, and baits her with a playful kind of intrigue. “Fancy a scavving run?”

“I could do with one, I think,” Madison agrees. “We could hit the usual places – or did you think of somewhere else?”

“Mm,” Catherine replies, “I got a tip from some trader yesterday that there’s some pretty nifty pre-war tech still working out in the Capital – out in the Museum of Technology, to be exact. Sounds like it’ll be a good run. Want to check it out?”

“Sure,” Madison says, seeming somewhat rejuvenated, laughing once, soft. “I’m losing my goddamn mind in here.”

With that, Madison finally moves her hand from Catherine’s, instead taking her mug, looking to her. “After this coffee?”

-x-

The sun sits high on the horizon, telling Catherine it’s just barely gone noon; with splintered rays of sunlight trailing through what’s left of the Washington Monument. The structure stands tall, fragmented, casting long, holey shadows across the mall, and the wasteland’s hot, dry heat beats down from the rays, not that Catherine minds. It’s a welcome change from the cold ruins of the Capitol Building, a warmth she’s far more familiar with, more so than the Captiol’s insides that stretch long and hollow.

She looks out to the wreckage of the Old World, catches sight of debris trailing in the wind, rolls down the crumbled steps leading down to the mall, over the remnants of blast craters scorched and laden with shards of concrete.

Catherine checks over her shoulder, and sees that Madison – for her part -- doesn’t take to the sun nearly as well. Where Catherine stretches, rolls her shoulders at the warmth, Madison instead awkwardly squints and shields her eyes; uses her free hand to rummage through her coat pocket and pull out a pair of shades. She fumbles them on, blinking to adjust, straightening her posture, adjusting the brim. Curved reflections of the Capital reflect on the darkened glass, with a hairline crack trailing the edge of the right lens, splitting the view like a mosaic.

“Really that bright for you?” Catherine asks her, brow brawn, voice carrying concern.

“It’s what spending years and years bunkered down in chem labs and decrepit power stations will get you,” Madison says, plays it off. “ _You_ , on the other hand? I swear you’re solar powered.”

“Possibly,” Catherine says, tone light, glances upward at the sun and at the tinged, irradiated sky; a dingy white against a perpetual murky, greenish yellow. “It’s been my guiding light, in a way. In all my wanderings – sometimes that thing up there is the only constant.”

“God – you’re such a _sap,_ Cathy,” Madison says from behind, and Catherine doesn’t need to even see her because she hears the dry playfulness of her voice, almost hears her smile.

“It’s why you keep me around,” Catherine replies, thumbing her pockets, rocking slight on her heels, turning to her.

“ _Sure_ ,” Madison quips, amused. “And your unparalleled knowledge in radiobiology and water purification is just for kicks, right?”

“May as well be. It’s nothing compared to your expertise in nuclear fusion and power management,” Catherine says, and Madison keeps on her, cocky, tilts her head, and smirks just slight in a way Catherine likes.

“You’re one for flattery, I’ll give you that,” Madison says. “But there’s no need to be modest, Catherine. You’ve got valuable specialities. Welcome ones, considering the landscape.”

“I suppose,” Catherine says, pockets her compliment. “It’s to the Abbey’s credit, honestly. They always placed president on teaching the sciences as well as the Faith to all its pupils.”

Catherine thinks back to the Abbey, of her classes and her colleagues. All the hope, all the passion and willing nurtured in its halls.

“I don’t think you would have minded it there,” Catherine continues, absent. “I know under all that straight talking you’ve got an eye for the hope of things, just as I do.”

“Maybe, if I ran the place,” Madison says. “After what happened at Hopkins -- I think you and I both know I don’t respond well to authority figures.”

“Indeed,” Catherine says with a delayed laugh. “Which is precisely why I offered to get you out of there.”

Catherine moves to tread the steps, keep them enroute to the museum – when Madison reaches out to and lightly touches Catherine’s arm, stopping her.

“Hey. Wait. Uncharted waters,” Madison says, voice occupied as she pops off the button to her coat’s front pocket again, this time pulling out a bottle of Rad-X. She pops the cap off and shakes the last few capsules into her leather-gloved palm, pills rumbling against the plastic.

The sound alone brings back recollections from her youth -- having to take Rad-X by the fistful traversing the outskirts of the elusive Glowing Sea; but while the memory is strong, it’s singular. She’d never dream of having to take them as often as Madison has do to traverse something as close as next town over. Li moves her palm to Catherine first, and she takes two, with Madison taking the other two herself – better safe than sorry in rad hotbeds like D.C.

To Catherine, dry swallowing the pills is uncomfortable, painful on her throat – but Madison appears to knock them back dry with no trouble. Not that she should be surprised, with the stories Catherine's heard from her; rationing water, power, living on the bare essentials. It’s something she should come to expect by now, in the while they’ve spent together.

Even though Catherine’s got a couple years on her -- Madison is still such a hardass. It’s almost refreshing after saving survivor after survivor, being in company of someone so self-sufficient – and looking out for her, for once.

“Alright. Lead the way, Wanderer.” Madison says, taking a step back. “We best be careful.”

They walk, and even though Catherine starts ahead, their pace evens out soon enough. The distance between the Capitol Building and the Museum is only few hundred feet, but drawn out by manoeuvring the unsteady terrain, stepping over a heap of collapsed rubble to get by – a commonality in D.C, apparently. They work their way up the packed earth to the western side, along the edge of the routes carved from blasted rubble and twisted rebar, footfalls measured. It’s new ground, so every couple dozen yards they stop and Madison pulses the ground with some pre-war transmitter she’s tweaked, cautious for buried mines and waiting radcorps. Catherine watches as the bluish waves flare to the ground from the transmitter, bewildered by the tech in it, hears the beeps and buzzes whir from the instrument. It’s the closest thing she’s held to a gun.

“No, no mines or critters beneath us from here to the museum,” Madison says, punctured with a beep from the transmitter as she shuts it down. “Just bones.”

“That thing still shocks me,” Catherine says. “How the hell does it even _know_ that?”

“Well, the pulses disturb the atoms surrounding the area just enough to pick up anything below ground, based on the parameters set,” Madison says, explains it plainly enough so Catherine understands, being more versed in biology than mechanics. “I’d imagine it’s also great for finding buried treasure, if you’re into that.”

Catherine wants to respond, and wants to listen to Madison talk more about the finer details when she doesn’t, but instead she finds herself drifting. Instead staring at the ground and following the lines and lines of sprawling cracked earth beneath them – with nothing sprouting through, nothing even _attempting_ to grow like she’s seen everywhere else; in the Commonwealth, down the entire eastern seaboard. There’s always been something. Even a stray vine twisted in the cracked remnants of New York, a single hubflower in the depths of the glowing sea. But here – there’s _nothing_. Nothing but toxic, sickening heat and dust clinging in her throat, heavy on her lungs.

“It’s so barren here,” Catherine finds herself saying, voice detached. “Not even a few hubflowers working out the concrete.”

And it’s hard for her to keep the faith, here, as much as she hates to admit it.

It’s all so desolate. Quiet, with only the sounds of the Old World crumbling and falling apart for miles all around; punctured with whines of rusted, twisted metal echoing in the dead of night. No birds, even if they’re mutated – there’s nothing living. Nothing to even try attack them. And to see it all in the nation's _Capital_ – there’s something unnerving about it. Unknown, unfamiliar; such a stark difference from the faded posters telling of the city, all still showing that quintessential white, red and blue in spite of the hellfire.

That’s why she finds herself thankful to have Madison here – because while Catherine knows everywhere from Boston to Pittsburgh like the lines running over her palms, Madison knows D.C better. She’s lived in the outskirts, in a moderate sized town founded around an old hospital, only a few miles over. She’s _used_ to seeing the world like this. She’s never seen anything different – never seen what it _could_ be.

“It’s unsurprising,” Madison offers, voice soft – well, soft for her, but pleasant all the same. “The radiation in the Capital Wasteland has always been so pervasive – the ruins alone were impenetrable up until about a decade ago. That’s when scavengers would actually come back to Hopkins from D.C alive; not case after case of M.I.As.”

Li talks more, but Catherine doesn’t mind. It’s welcome to have her rationale inform her – and to just hear her talk.

“I mean, unless you were a _ghoul_ , anyway,” Madison continues, stepping closer to Catherine, voice spry, sarcastic. “I imagine D.C being _quite_ the sanctuary until the half-life decayed enough for all us smoothskins to start worming our way back in.”

Catherine laughs; soft, delayed, but genuine. She chirps up, welcoming the closeness, murmuring, “I’d like to think we’ve made some good ties with our ghoulish brethren here in the last few days, at least.”

Madison’s lips move to say something, then she’s distracted, looking ahead. “Wait, I’m just thinking,” she murmurs, looking in the direction of the monument. “While we’re here…”

Her voice trails as she steps past Catherine, heads to the large body of water inside the mall pools, running from the Lincoln Memorial down half the mall. Madison sits on the cracked edge of the pool, hefting her pack down between her feet with a heavy thud followed by the rattle of technology and broken parts she refuses to leave behind, pulling a Geiger Counter from inside. She moves to hover it over the water, twisting the dials with careful, agile movements, cocking her head at the metrics.

The Geiger counter warbles in response, crackles loud as the readings feed through. “That’s what I was thinking,” Madison murmurs, mostly to herself, brow drawn as she reads the meter, glances over the water. “And if that’s miles from the river water… _God_. It’s worse than I thought.”

Madison sighs, Geiger hanging in her hands, shoulders slumped. Unexpected for Catherine to see – and even with the aviators shielding her eyes, Catherine can tell Madison's caught up in something, in the way she stares off; the way her brow creases, the way she tries to map solutions for problems she doesn't even know yet.

She never stops, not even for a moment.

“What,” Catherine calls, walking to her, “Still not viable for me to do laps up in?”

“Only if you want to go _feral_ by the time you reach Abe,” Madison quips in return, angling her head up the stretch to the Lincoln memorial, putting the counter back in her duffle bag.

“Mm. Noted,” Catherine responds, sarcastic. Casts her sight over the water, watches as the midday sun glistens over, ripples from where Madison’s pulled her measurer out. The light filters slow, nearly soothing in its calmness; but the light still struggles to refract through the grimy water – it’s still unclean, polluted, still teaming with radiation after all this time – and it hits her with a pit of anger at how the Children of Atom would go _wild_ for it.

Catherine looks up, pulls herself from her anger, and looks to the Lincoln Memorial at the end of the Mall. One of so many landmarks she’s seen in the ruins, so many she’s seen over all her travels; this one a sun-slighted silhouette of a man sitting in some kind of chair, obscured by crumbled columns, debris and rubble. It’s still a sight to see this side of the apocalypse, anyway, even with the decay. Some part of her never expected it to survive so many years after the war, but there’s something calming in seeing that he still stands, in spite of everything.

She pulls her attention away now, looking back over to Madison. Says: “Hopefully that lead for the radiation dampeners comes through when we’re finally able to get out of here.”

“Yes, well,” Madison says, takes a sharp breath, looking up to Catherine and pausing, briefly, before she looks back down. Voice lower. “We’ve got a lot of fun waiting for us up at the Jefferson Memorial, at any rate.”

The weariness in Madison’s voice is unexpected, exposing an uncertainty she seems to hold about this entire thing despite being so dogmatic in her work for it. It pulls at strings Catherine wasn’t aware she had in her -- stirs her to see Madison this way; see her apprehensive, concerned, when she cares so much. Makes her want to offer… _something._ Something to comfort her.

“We’ll get it done, Madi,” Catherine says, moves to sit beside Madison on the ledge, keeping her own backpack over her shoulders, press of patchy burlap against her leather biker gear. Catherine’s voice as quiet as she sits near her, ducks her head down. “Just take it one day at a time. Okay?”

Madison remains quiet, eyes set down.

“Speaking of,” Catherine says some moments later, voice chipper, “If ol’Jamie is going to be gone for the next few days – we’re gonna need to try trading with our friends again,” she says, turning behind, looking over to the Museum of history – or _Underworld_ , as they call it now; a bitter irony considering the residents it houses.

“Mm,” Madison hums in agreement, glancing briefly in the direction of Underworld. “Maybe we could barter for a bottle or two of Azrachaul’s bourbon while we’re there,” she murmurs. “They sure do call that stuff _Smoothskin_ for a reason.”

“We could,” Catherine heartily agrees, leans in. “I’ll buy us out the bar,” she continues, playfully nudges Madison’s shoulder. “You just watch.”

“Don’t start making me promises,” Madison counters, breaking a slight smile. “Because I’ll hold you to that.”

It’s a smile Catherine takes, and offers the same in return. “Then we best check out this trader’s tipoff for bar money, right?”

“C’mon,” Catherine continues, rising, offering her hands. Madison takes them, and Catherine gently pulls her up; their fingers thread through and linger, slow as Madison stands, lasting for a few moments – with Madison breaking the contact only to heft her pack back over her shoulder.

Madison walks with Catherine, keeps a few steps behind. It’s a short distance rounding the last corner of the Mall to arrive at the Museum Station, with the Museum of Technology only a few feet away.

“So,” Madison pipes up as they walk, saying, “What’d this scavver say about the Museum of Technology, anyway?”

Shoot _.  
_

_Shoot_.

Should’ve _thought_ about this, Catherine — Madison would’ve asked what the details soon enough.

“ _Umm_ ,” Catherine murmurs, and she’s thinking on her feet as they near the building, stalling “Something about the – _God_ , what do they call it? The -- the radar dishes!” She says, words springing from her mouth a touch too enthused. She clears her throat, adjusts, saying, “I mean, the potential applications of those materials are… _Staggering_.”

“Oh. Well. Interesting,” Madison says, tone unchanged. “But how does that help us with a large scale water purification project?”

“That’s what we’re here to find out, right?” Catherine responds, coy, looking to her. But the corner of Madison’s mouth curves, and she arches a brow.

God, she’s _so_ not buying it.

Yet she follows anyway.

There’s something about that – it’s rare, especially out here. Something that shouldn’t be tarnished. Something that’s got to be valued, cherished, like the last signs of life in dying, decayed world.


	2. Chapter 2

It takes a hearty shove, but Catherine pushes the door open, cautious, and light from the mall pours in behind them. It lights up the otherwise dim lobby, casts light over the decor; the frayed flags, the forgotten creations of man. The world’s first airplane, wings punctured, tattered. Their first lunar rover – something that went to another _planet_ – crumpled unceremoniously in a bed of rubble. All laid to waste, all from a dead, lost time – from the _Old World._

It still elicits a sense of wonderment, even in its devastation; at what it was, once. What it could be again. But the same wreckage also pushes an unwavering sense of confinement: in the way it tumbles down from the sides, swallowing swaths of the once open space.

Madison steps ahead, briefly juts her head up as she walks, only taking in the immediate surroundings without nearly as much awe. Instead, she takes a b-line for the terminals at the front desk. Standard practice for their scaving runs. Catherine’s better with a gun – her trusted, pump action shotty, fastened to her back; Madison’s always been better with a terminal. Even in the times Catherine’s tried to teach her to shoot, Catherine’s always felt her unease as she’s tried steadying her aim, hands are wrapped around hers. It’s not for everyone. So they make it work.

As Li sets up at the terminal, Catherine treads the parameter of the lobby – checks the washrooms, the undersides of rubble. Searching for mines, loot; anything of interest. Can’t help but do it – check everything once, twice, three times. Maybe because it’s new ground, maybe it’s the damn claustrophobia of the place, maybe because it offers her sense of mind – but she can’t seem to shake the unease that continues to persist. It’s a gnawing feeling, deep in her gut.

She looks upward, scanning the balconies; still quiet, near silent.

Madison taps away at the terminal behind, starting and stopping, just like at camp. It’s comforting in its familiarity.

“I’m seeing leads to some valuable materials already,” Madison calls, dropping her pack to the ground with a loud, rumbling thud, prominent in the silence. “This is _so_ useful, Cathy,” she continues, voice fast and absorbed in the information she’s seeing.

But Catherine continues to stare out into the darkness, eyes narrowed.

Madison looks over the terminal when Catherine doesn’t reply, stops her typing.

“See something, Cath?”

It’s still there. And she still can’t shake it.

“No, no,” Catherine says, turning, takes a sharp breath, exhales. “I’m just being paranoid… Traders came through here just yesterday.” She pauses, and _makes_ herself walk from the edge of the parameter, asking, “What’ve you found?”

Catherine rounds the desk to Madison, deftly setting her own pack on the counter, stepping to the left of her. Gives her a good vantage: still looking at the terminal, but able to get a good look around them still. She rolls her shoulders again, tries to loosen the tautness in her muscles, hears the strain of leather from her jacket.

“So – you weren’t wrong about the satellites,” Madison says, showing her by tapping town lines and lines of text. “Apparently, they have the real Lunar XII here, in storage – the one in the lobby is some replica. Getting a look inside that thing might offer some valuable insights into a few pet projects of mine,” she continues, much to wrapped up with the data she’s found to be concerned with anything else. “It’ll be interesting to get a look at.”

“Oh, fantastic,” Catherine murmurs, tries her best to suppress her distraction. “And I – ”

There’s a distant sound that stops her. Quiet, emanating from the balconies, and Catherine’s sight follows it, looking upward. Almost like something – skittering. But sounded too light to be the claw scrapes of a weighty molerat, much too heavy to be the slinky slither-crawl of radroaches.

Years of field entomology on behalf of the Abbey has given her an ear for these things, and that sounded like something much more human then she’s comfortable with.

Catherine stills, her posture tensed; fingers hooked under the leather straps holstering her shotgun, fingers grazing the carved metal accents, cold to the touch. Madison’s still working through entries, though and _God_ – did she not hear it?

A few more long moments, and another sure sounding pad of heavy flesh, wet sounding against the rubble, coming from the balconies again. Louder than before. Closer. Catherine steps back, listening out; trying to decipher their stature as she calmly unholsters her weapon. They’re not mutants – they’d be shouting and screaming by now if they were mutants – and the way she hears the dragging of limbs alongside the scratches, like flesh dragging over the ground… it fits more into a hunched stature.

She keeps thinking – but a sharp vocalisation gives her more information: a whispery, gravely hiss from the darkness before them, vocal cords sounding torn and decayed.

Shit.

Madison’s tying cuts her concentration.

“Hey, Madison,” Catherine murmurs, quiet, but carries still. “Stop that for a second.”

“What?” Madison asks, voice nearly frustrated, turning to her.

“Ferals,” Catherine whispers, pumping her shotgun as she treads forward. “ _Ssh_.”

She just catches Madison in her peripheral; her eyes widened at the show of the gun. She’s not experienced in handling arms – loading them, firing them effectively. But it won’t be a problem, whatever’s out there.

Because it’ll be fine. It’s fine, Catherine. That’s why you’ve got your gun.

They’re not even that bad, ferals – once you really think about them. Just people, like her and Madison but – very different, and much more lethal. Sounds more like stalker types from their nimbleness, combined with their caution; average ferals are far more aggressive, pouncing at any sound they hear. But they’re ferals much further along in the process of decay because of their caution; bodies more agile and light from the longer breakdown of fatty tissues over time.

Something to do with the way the radiation ionises particular cells, trips certain pre-ghoul mutations to trigger physiological variation – that’s what she tells James when he asks, anyway – though somewhere deep down, she doesn’t want to believe it. Just wants to see them as the people they were, before the bombs, before the radiation. Just doesn’t feel right to slaughter them, leave their bodies without proper ceremony, without any kind of dignity –

But stalkers – stalkers, they keep to the dark sides of buildings, deep in metro tunnels, anything underground and out of sight. Sometimes even going as far to cling to the walls, the undersides of balconies, ceilings. Primed and ready to drop down and eviscerate unsuspecting souls below – and they’re not _people_ , Catherine, not anymore. It’s foolish to give them humanity – all it does is give them a better chance at jumping her. Or Madison.

And she can’t let that happen.

So when there’s a much louder, much harsher crash, and Madison moves to her – Catherine shuts off her misplaced passion, and readies her gun.

“Just keep your back to mine, Madi,” Catherine instructs, voice quiet but firm. “So I know where you are. And you can tell me what’s behind.”

Madison obliges, turns with a steady caution and presses her back to Catherine’s. The contact sets her at the slightest of ease; a mental affirmation Madi’s just there, that she’s fine. Catherine remains primed with her shotgun, stock to her shoulder, eyes narrowed and squinting into the dark, searching for outlines of lurching figures.

They stand, Catherine poised disciplined like her Apostle training taught her; feels that Madison’s twitchy, as much as she’s trying to suppress it.

Moments pass slow, slow. But it’s too slow. _Too_ quiet –

And there’s another harsh scrape from the balconies, loud and closing – this time with a sudden flicker of movement in the dark before her, darting left. Catherine traces the sound fast with her gun – and her heart’s thumping now, thudding in her ears, so much she feels it squeeze in her chest. Tries to keep her breathing levelled; keep her gun straight.

Are they just – _waiting_? Waiting for what? Her breath hitches as she keeps still, swallowing thickly. She finds that Madison’s presence behind is what grounds her, keeps her focused and keen-eyed.

“Cath – _Catherine_ ,” Madison’s voice shakes, and she turns and grips onto her – just as Catherine sees the stalker burst from the dark and lunging toward them.

Catherine brings herself between Madison and the feral in seconds – and she braces against the ghoul with the length of her shotgun. Grunts, pushes back. Grits her teeth to hold try hold the distance, pushing with all the strength she’s got, veins jutting in her arms. All while it’s swiping for her, slobbering; she pushing to get just a few inches between them, get it to back down. And in the split second it yields, hissing and coughing – Catherine moves and slams her elbow into its chest. The ghoul splutters, stunned; Catherine pumps her shotgun and squeezes the trigger – and the spread blows into the feral’s gaunt chest, knocks it back.

Madison recoils, hands jumping up to the sides of her head. She’s not used to having her ears pop from a gun sounding so close – not used to it the way Catherine is.

Catherine looks back to the feral.

It’s not dead.

Instead, it skitters back across the marble, groans; a guttural, pained sound. Catherine reloads moves to close the distance. She steps close, lines up the shot with her gun, finger primed on the trigger – but her gun twitches when the feral wheezes, as she watches it struggle to stand. It drops back to the floor. Still breathing.

She’s done this before. She’s done this countless, countless times; on the outskirts of the glowing sea at nineteen, the insides of New York and Manhattan at twenty, through Pittsburgh and Virginia and –

Why is this different?

Catherine stands over the feral, and she lowers her gun. Takes in what’s done.

Takes in its body, reduced to a bloody mess of shrapnel and gore – twisted metal punctured in all over its flesh, spread over its chest. Torso just barely rising, falling, arms outstretched. Clouded eyes rolled back, searching for something. For what? For what comes after this? Would they even go to the same place as everyone else, even with what they are now?

She’s lost in it, minding waning and _God_ , they were just like her, once. With everything to live for. And she puts them down like they’re _nothing_.

A silver pocket watch hangs from the ghoul’s neck, laying on its chest. It rolls and pops open from its panting – and Catherine looks at the old scratches, a photograph so tattered and faded it doesn’t look like anything tangible. But it doesn’t looked caked in grime, like it should do – almost like it’s been kept polished and clean, like someone’s tried to keep it close to the pristineness it must have had before the war –

And her thoughts cut with the sound of a _sickening_ screech – loud and twisted and unhuman – coming from behind.

Catherine snaps her head over her shoulder just as another Stalker comes running – with its teeth bared and hissing and its arm raised to strike her – when there’s a loud _bang_ , and a heavy thud from the drop of the stalker’s corpse. The feral slacks unceremoniously to the ground, stopped in its tracks with a clean shot to the side of its head. Blood pools from the wound, runs along the cracked marble, seeping in the gaps.

A rush of blood surges hot in her veins, heart hammers heavy and becomes painfully aware to Catherine now, as she struggles to keep level her breathing, rugged and gasping. She remains unnaturally still, looking at the body – the second body she wasn’t even aware of – and then she looks in the direction of the gunshot. And she sees Madison stood, sharing the same still terror, a rusted .32 pistol in her hands.

She tries to keep her posture straight, but her shoulders are too pulled up, gun slacked and looking heavy in her hands; like she’s shrinking into her frame, stiffened up. Jaw tensed and tendons twitching as she stares the body down, before her eyes dart up and she catches Catherine’s sight on her. She quickly straightens up, trying to stand confident, lowering the pistol with both her hands still wrapped tight around it.

“S – _See_ ,” Madison says, voice faltering; clears her throat to cover it. Her shoulders straighten, them movements jittery; the gun trembles as she lowers it, slow, gains her composure, saying, “I – I finally got one.”

And guilt stabs Catherine’s gut like a twist of rebar, anxiety blistering under her skin.

“I – I’m sorry,” Catherine blurts, stammering, “I – I hesitated,” she continues, walking to her, “I thought way too much into it, and I – would could have both,” and she looks to the corpse again, mind racing through what could’ve happened – what could’ve so _easily_ happened – darts her sight back up to Madison as she catches her staring, panic still behind her eyes.

“What? Why are _you_ apologising?” Madison asks, brow drawn, voice firm but wavering still. “I’m the one that needs to learn how to actually use one of these things, properly,” she says. Lingers. Looks to her. “So you don’t have to worry about me. On top of your own wellbeing. It’s – it’s unfair for you to carry that burden.”

“You’re – you are not a burden. That is… the _last_ thing you are to me,” Catherine says, voice deliberate, affirming. “That’s why I promised – if we were going to travel together – you wouldn’t have to do things you’re not comfortable doing.”

Catherine steps closer, places her hand on Madison’s shoulder; the touch light, affectionate – assuring. “Besides. I don’t mind worrying. It keeps me focused.”

“I suppose,” Madison sighs, looking up to her, but eyes darting away again. “I just – I want to be in a position where I could promise you the same if it came down to it.”

“Well, you _more_ than proved it, just now,” Catherine replies. “That stalker would’ve ripped me apart.”

Madison looks to her, and she nods, relaxing into the touch. Catherine lingers, offers her a smile; rocks her shoulder slightly, smooths her arm.

There’s so much more Catherine wants to say – so much, too much, sudden and bursting from her chest. Thoughts she can’t pull together the way she wants, that leave her lips parted and wordless, instead manifesting inside as this incomparable swell of – _appreciation_. Gratitude. Care. Toward her, for her – all in in ways Catherine can’t seem to figure. That she can’t communicate; instead, running radio silence, overstaying its welcome. She’s tongue-tied.

“You don’t have to prove your worth to me, Catherine,” Madison responds, some moments later, almost unrelated to what Catherine said before. Not entirely.

Madison takes a sharp breath, looking away. “Anyway, Catherine,” she says, stepping back; leaves her pistol on the side of reception, next to the rusted desk bell. She brushes her hands down her sides, nearing the Stalker, looking over the body. Ponders, thinks aloud. “Now, Cathy… Let’s talk statistics, shall we?” Madison eyes her, saying; “What do you think –statistically – that these ghouls were the old employees of this place, two hundred years ago?”

Her bluntness – the dryness of her delivery, the immediacy of her question – makes Catherine blunder; she barks a laugh, shake her head, staggered at the apparent absurdity. “I don’t…” she murmurs, blinking,“ – _That’s_ what you ask?”

“I think it’s a valid line of questioning, moving forward,” Madison responds, matter of fact, though a slight twinge at the corner of her lip betrays her tone. Knows she’s being facetious – but it’s right. Everything dies. No use living in the past. Even if that’s hard for Catherine too see, sometimes.

Madison moves to the second body, and Catherine follows suit, crouches across from her. “Because if you and I are anything like those Brotherhood asshats I’ve been hearing _so_ much about,” Madison continues, “Surely documenting all this pre-war admin crap is our utmost concern in this grand expanse. Right?”

And she’s wonderfully deadpan, grounding in ways she doesn’t realise.

“Or they have a keycard,” Catherine says. “And it’ll take us deeper.”

Madison smirks. “Right. Or they have a keycard.” She pulls the Stalker’s frayed tool belt, before stopping and looking back up to her. “They call us _natives_ , you know. Like we’re animals.”

Catherine scoffs, quiet. “Well, I think we often show more humility than most,” she murmurs. Touches her hair; fingers grazing the underside of her braid, pinned in place. “Maybe too much.”

There’s a silence. Only the sound of fabric shuffling as Madison looks through the belt pockets, sound of screws and pins dropping to the ground.

“They’re not what they’re used to be, are they?” Catherine asks, brow drawn, looking down at the ghoul.

“No. Their minds left this place a long, long time ago,” Madison replies, stopping, voice sincere. “You’ve got to remember that.”

“I know,” Catherine sighs. “I … I know.”

Madison returns to searching, saying; “Now, is there… -- _damn_ , you were right.” She stops, pulling a square of plastic from the feral’s tool belt, shows it to her. “Keycard.”

“Trader said there’d be one around somewhere,” Catherine says, “Said it’d give us a much safer route through the museum.”

“Well, they were right,” Madison says, rising, flipping the card over and back. Says: “It’s second-grade clearance, so probably a janitor; however many moons ago. My guess is shrapnel face over there was the secretary.”

“Well, whoever they were – they won’t be hurting anyone else, anymore,” Catherine sighs, pumps her shotgun, feels it spit empty shells, hears the crisp sound of them clattering against the marble, hears the echo. “Pass it to me. Let me see if works on the door over there.”

Madison obliges; offers it to her. Catherine takes it, reads the designation embossed on the plastic: _SECURITY-DESG-G.2_. The sight of it serves to pick Catherine back up, reinvigorate her drive. It’ll take them right to the Planetarium, along with whatever salvage this place might hold. Keep them away from any more ferals, too, with any luck.

But Li remains on her, asks; “Are you okay, though, CathY?”

“Yeah. Not even a scratch, thanks to you,” Catherine responds, causal, checking her shoulder. Gives her a heartfelt smile.

They walk, and she continues.

“Now – try taking on a talking bearded deathclaw with nothing more than the crappy hand-me-down shotty afforded from the local priest – at the ripe age of nineteen,” Catherine says, lingers, fingers tracing along the carving of her shotgun; observes the way the wood’s aged, matured over the years, much like she has. Pulls back, says, “ _Then_ you’ve got be creative.”

“Wait-wait- _wait_ a second, Catherine,” Madison says, bemused, hefting her pack over shoulder, Catherine’s in hand. Catherine turns to her, nonchalant, brow raised. Expectant as she presses further. “Did you say a bearded deathclaw? A _talking_ one? And are you sure it wasn’t… entrails or something? Hanging out of its mouth?”

This story was going to come up eventually.

“Nope. _Bearded_. Kinda straggly too, like when little Jamie slurps down a bowl of noodles and gets the broth on his beard,” Catherine explains, steps up ahead to the doorway nearby. Holsters her gun, scans the keycard, and the door unlocks with a satisfying _click_. She slips the card back in her pocket.

“Wait. Sorry,” Madison calls, stopping her. “I wanted to get a copy of server manifest." She walks back to the terminal, and a familiar _tap-tap-tap_ of keys fills the space. Looks to her. “But please, continue.”

“He fashioned himself as some kind of messiah,” Catherine says, walking back. “The Abbey nicknamed him _Baphomet_. A false God. Not a great nickname to have.”

Madison’s typing subsides as she shunts a holotape into the terminal’s reader, and it crackles, whirs. Madison looks over to her, voice casual. “So. How many shells did you have?”

“Not enough,” Catherine replies with a shaky laugh. “Long story short – after I ran out – I found a very effective say of maiming the godforsaken thing with an Auto Axe.”

Li pauses, eyes meeting hers with a genuine looking bewilderment, brows raised. “Why have you never told me this before?”

“It scares people,” Catherine sighs, gnaws on the inside of her lip. “And I’m not a maniacal killer, you know?”

“That… sounds like a hell of a story,” Madison says with a low, rumbling laugh.

“It is,” Catherine agrees, rounding the desk to her. “But Preacher Curie always told it better than I ever could. And she wasn’t even _there_.”

“Please, give me your best rendition,” Madison says, smiling. Crosses her arms, leans against the desk. “We’ve got some time to kill as this copies, anyway. And I’ve got to hear this.”

“Okay, but… you asked for it,” Catherine says, stepping back. She turns, steps up on a pile of rubble across from Madison, just like Preacher Curie on the crumbled insides of the Abbey during Sunday sermon. She straightens her posture, clears her throat; pulls her voice down so it’s lower, coarser like Preacher Curie, with her age and wrinkles. And so _loud_ for such a small, stocky woman.

“So, fair followers of the Faith,” Catherine begins, and Madison snickers – from the voice, not what she’s saying. Catherine smiles, begins:

“Herein lies the tale of the great evil named _Baphomet,_ a vengeful beast squandered in the depths of Glowing Sea,” She says, pauses to exaggerate the voice further. “This… wretched, talking devil came with intent to misguide our brother and sisters of the Children! His lies, his forsaken prophecies – all a shambolic attempt to try and dismantle the Abbey of the Road, and to undermine the Faith for all!”

Her voice warbles in places, echoes from the walls; though she’s somewhat relieved no feral bystanders interrupted her monologue. _Any_ goddamn ferals hiding around would've come out the woodwork by now with all their talking.

Madison chuckles; soft, faint. It’s a pleasant sound to hear.

“His plans came far,” Catherine continues, “So far, in fact - that he conceived his greatest evil: to envelop the entire Commonwealth in fire, for a second time.”

“ _What_?” Madison asks, brows arched and eyes wide, darting to her.

“Oh, yeah. This guy was a real _asshole_ ,” Catherine says, breaking her queue. “Convinced the Children of Atom to gather nuclear material, make a couple dozen dirty bombs. Point them _right_ at the Abbey. Huge shit show. Honestly.”

“And you – how did you get an _audience_ with this thing?”

“I snuck in,” Catherine says, diplomatic, “But – not to kill the thing, originally. Just to get some information about the Children’s new prophet. Relay it back to the Abbey. And, admittedly – I wanted tissues samples for my own research. I felt very morally compromised about the whole thing. At first.”

“Until…?” Madison asks.

“Until, one morning, I woke up and it was me, this thing -- ‘Baphomet’, and him wanting to kill me,” She stops, recalling the memory. “—And, of course, a huge, fuck off sized automated axe the length of my arm between us. The rest is history.”

Recalls the ashen sky, the razor-like lightning; thunder crashing, storm surrounding them.

“And how did Preacher Curie spin that?”

“Politely,” Catherine says, and clears her throat again, rolls her shoulders. “She was all: Until… our great Apostate took the ram by its horns, in the irradiated depths of the glow.” She pauses, and God: it does sound good. Like something straight from _Revelation_. “And -- our pariah maimed and disfigured the hulking death-clawed ram until it lived no longer, for _all_ its sin against the Abbey, and the citizens of the Commonwealth.” She slacks her shoulders, offers up her hands. “And there you have it. The time I killed a deathclaw.”

Madison scoffs. “Spin or not – that’s still an incredible show of will and intellect, Cathy,” she says. “You took a deathclaw one on one.”

“What Curie neglects to mention is that I didn’t take on the thing in some blaze of glory on behalf of the Faith, or the Abbey,” Catherine says. “The thing clocked me, got all his cronies to throw me down as a naysayer, and dragged me off to this goddamn hellpit in a fucking crater.” She takes a moment to collect her thoughts – her anger – and continues. “Thankfully – all those radiobiology classes came in handy. And I got my tissue samples, so. I guess it paid off.”

"And after that, the Abbey tell you _leave_?” Madison says, almost to herself.

The words give Catherine pause.

_I guess I just didn’t measure up._

“Alright, alright,” Catherine says, stepping off the rubble. Clears her throat at the strain from throwing her voice so much. Walks back to Madison, saying, “That’s all you’re getting. It’s embarrassing.”

“Aw, but watching you was fun,” Madison says, cocking her head; brows drawn.

“You’re the first to believe it, at least,” Catherine says, looking over the terminal. It’s strange – even with the scars to prove the tale, the silver claw slashes running her torso, the puncture marks in her shoulder – no one ever believes it. “Usually it’s the beard that throws ‘em,” Catherine explains. “Think it was some drug addled trip.”

The terminal chirps, then, a rapid _beep-beep-beep_. Madison looks over, brow arched. “Ah. _Finally_.”  
  
Madison ejects the holotape, scribbles a note on its side, and puts it in her pack. It joins a line of about a half dozen others, all with similar titles. _Vault-Tec_ , _Braun_ , _Museum_.

Together, they cross the lobby to the door Catherine unlocked earlier.

Catherine pops the door open quiet, deliberate, scanning down the narrow space before continuing. Not nearly as extravagant as the lobby – marble replaced with industrial looking, off-white walls, paint cracked and flaking, tiling shattered beneath their feet. There’s some emergency lighting, thankfully, and a generator huddled down in the corner. Must’ve been set up by the traders.

“One last question, though, about the Deathclaw,” Madison murmurs as they walk, “How the hell does a talking Deathclaw even – happen? I mean, mutations from radiation occur in all kinds of ways – but I imagine you have a theory, biologist you are.”

Catherine perks up, looks back to her. “Well, now you ask…”

“It wasn’t from rads, I don’t think. I mean, in all my field work I’ve never seen a _thing_ like it,” Catherine says, hushes her tone, “And actually -- I found myself talking to some trader a good few years back – mentioned it while we were talking bikes, you know? – and, apparently, this deathclaw-turned-messiah I maimed? Rumor is that the damn thing might’ve been some labrat – from an underground scientific facility back in the Commonwealth.”

Madison arches a brow.

“Right? Like a _vault_ , or… something. Exposed to a pathogen that could _make_ him talk. Makes you think… having all that knowledge, all to become some jackass trying to see the world burn again. It’s horrible.”

“I feel you could apply that to a lot of folk out here,” Madison says, sighing. “Regardless, the kind of things you get tangled with up north – I can’t quite believe it.”

“You’ve got _no_ idea.” Catherine says. “The place is a goddamn quagmire.”

“You’ll have to clue me in sometime,” Madison says, voice both parts playful and interested.

“Well,” Catherine says, unlocking the next door. “Keep with those headshots – and I might just tell you.”

Past the doors, and onto the next floor’s balcony, what they encounter next is unexpected.

“Oh... wow,” Catherine murmurs. “Speaking of.”

There’s a Vault, embedded into the side of the west wing.

The interior seems real – solid, plated lead and steel; the rocks are fake, though, and the reddish sand they use for packed dirt looks more Martian than Wasteland. Taints the realism. But the age of the exhibit feels real enough, though, with the metal rusted copper; absent of the gleam touted in nearby holopictures strung up on the walls, declaring a ‘ _Lifetime Shine Guarantee!’_ for dwellers.

“A _vault_ demonstration,” Madison says, stepping forward. “I’m surprised that they’d go to the trouble of using real steel during wartime.”

“I’m not surprised,” Catherine says, still taking it in. “I suppose installing an exhibit in the nation’s capital secures you some great advertisement space.”

Catherine looks across the balcony, sees a pair of double-doors. That’s where they need to go.

“Looks like it’s the only way we’ll get through to the other side,” she says.

“Well, then… let’s take the tour,” Madison says, voice not completely confident; understandably apprehensive, but still stepping ahead. “It’s a like a goddamn fair ride.”

“The tunnel of love,” Catherine quips, following her.

It’s dark inside, and impossible to maneuver through unaided, so Madison stops.

Catherine scans the space just before the entrance; eyes an old fusion cell torch on the side, next to the skeleton of what she assumes to be the security guard. judging by the uniform it wears. Clad in ripped navy slacks and a button up shirt, slumped up on a rusted desk chair. Catherine steps slow toward the body, cringing as she daintily unwraps its fingers, hearing them crunch, pulling the torch from their grip.

“I’m just gonna borrow this, buddy…” she murmurs, brushing off the dust. Flips it on.

The light from the torch is dim at best, barely illuminating the corridor they step into; flickers and blinkers fast, barely holding light. Madison keeps ahead, using the light Catherine offers best she can, but it’s a struggle for both of them.

“God. Can’t see a _damn_ thing,” Catherine murmurs. “Think you could flip the circuits somewhere—or something?”

“Yes. Keep the light on me,” Madison says, staying ahead. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Catherine obliges, keeping her torch primed on Li as they continue down the hallway. But she’s alert still; fingers light on her sidearm. She peers through the dark, trying to make out what she can see of the Vault in the shadows; part vigilance, part curiosity.

It’s the closest she’s gotten to stepping into one of these things—the floor feels different under her boots, sounds different; it’s cold, echoing a hollow, dead sound. It’s hard not to wonder if this is how it felt living deep underground. With an everlasting chill at the tip of their spine, with sanitised to the point of sterility. With it feeling _so_ cold, so lifeless.

Madison stops with a sudden stillness, one that catches Catherine from her thoughts; she moves, gestures for Catherine to illuminate the torch to the wall on their left. Motions her to come closer so the light is stronger.

Catherine steps closer, and the light brings a slight indentation in the steel-plated wall into view, embossed with Vault-Tec’s logo. Cath watches as Madison smooths the edges with her fingers, presses once – and the steel plate pops off, and she sets it quiet to the ground. The opening exposes bundles of tangled wires powering the demonstration; Madison grounds herself, then pushes the wires aside, exposing the circuit breaker beneath.

“Ah. There we are. Not the nuclear reactor I was hoping for,” Madison murmurs, sounding somewhat disappointed, even with an edge of sarcasm, “But I’m sure I’ll get to jury rig one of those someday.”

“You know. I honestly don’t underestimate you will in the slightest,” Catherine says, genuine. “I’m sure you could build something far beyond a vault reactor if you had the resources.”

“Always the flatterer,” Madison says. “You sure know the way to my heart.”

Catherine keeps the torch on Li as she works the breaker, sharply checking over her shoulder for anything moving; thankfully, though, there’s nothing this time. But it’s still so damn unsettling, all of it; the darkness, the cold feeling under her heels, the chill lingering on her neck, trailing down her spine. Stares out for a few moments. Maybe even hoping there’s someone there to give weight to her paranoia –

There’s a blinding flood of light, painfully harsh and artificial, accompanied a split second later with a barrage of noise – the voice of an announcer, booming and haughty – and Catherine all but jumps, yelps – grips onto Madison for protection, movement fast and from reflex.

“Lord – _almighty_ ,” Catherine whispers, regaining her faculties, fingers digging into the thick leather of Madison’s merc coat, finding an unexpected comfort in their closeness, the proximity between them. She steadies herself on her, eyes adjusting to the light, blinking past the strain. The announcer’s voice dies down, echoes out into tinny, garbled static. “Sorry, I – sorry,” she murmurs, somewhat reluctant as she pulls herself away. “Panicked.”

Madison remains still, eyes set on her, arches a brow. “Really?” She asks with a faint chuckle, smiling. “You take down ferals no problem – eviscerate goddamn hellspawn in your down time – and _this_ is what scares you?”

“It’s all relative,” Catherine says in an attempt to save her pride, sighing, “And—not the time in life I expected to hear a voice _booming_ from above,” she adds, voice quieter, drier. “Much less touting centuries old advertisements about _wonderglue_.”

Madison laughs again – once, unexpected, louder, the most she’s gotten from her. “You’re funny, Cath.”

The vault looks different in the light. Different, but – not better. By any stretch.

What she imagined the vault to look like isn’t far from the reality. The cold floor has texture now, brushed metal, caked with grime and rust, unnatural looking. And the metal is _everywhere_. Walls, floors. Surrounding the panes of glass she sees lining the right side of them, showing the insides of the rooms.

And there’s _lines_ of them, lines of rooms, one after the other as they walk. A kitchen. A bedroom. A baby’s room, with a cot and a broken mobile, a toy bear barely hanging on a stretch of cord. All under that same cold looking floor, with same metal ceiling overhead, tucked neatly between wall after wall, between sheets of neatly cut metal. Like boxes – cages. Habitats to watch subjects crawl in, like she saw in the holotapes at the Abbey, buried in the old Science lab. They’re like the boxes she held roaches in during her field work. Not something she'd ever guess was so sought after.

It’s such a far cry from what she’s accustomed to – life on the surface, with packed dried earth and the warmth from the sun, pleasant and beating down on her skin; land for miles and miles, all she could see. Here, it’s so sterile. Isolating.

They keep walking, steps slower than usual.

“You’ve gone quiet,” Madison comments. “Something wrong?”

“I just,” Catherine begins, quietens her voice. “It’s all so… _creepy_. Don’t you think?”

“It would be safe, I imagine,” Madison offers. “In face of the alternative.”

It's understandable she’d come in from that route, stern but well meaning, knowing her: bite back your tongue and be glad you’re not dead – that’s the line in Hopkins. That’s what’s Madison’s been raised on, how she operates, to a degree. But so different from what Catherine knows, what she’s seen, she can’t help but push back against it.

“If the world’s on fire, sure, sign me up,” Catherine says. “I’m thinking long term, once they’ve saved you; once the fallout settles. What happens then? How safe could you really _be_ in one of these things? No way to get out… Nothing but the four walls they give you. Having enough food – or water. I can’t fathom it.”

  
She finds herself stopping again at another bedroom. It’s a family one this time – the full amenities; a faded sofa, a double bed, another cot, something resembling life before the war – and it looks so _sad_. “And— _God_ ,” Catherine murmurs, almost laughs; the thought hitting her deep in the gut. “Raising a _family_ down here…”

It’s the notion that stirs her the most. Her thoughts drift to the idea of a child, sickly and pale—skinny and malnourished and starved from the sun; in one of those _creepy_ vault suits – one of dozens, with the same number printed on them as everyone else. Treading the same halls from the day they’re born to the day they die, knowing nothing of the world above, the _hope_ of the world above. Never having the chance to grow, develop their own individuality, their own sense of self, divorced from the regime bearing over them.

Catherine’s filled with sadness, edged with defiance. “I can’t think of anything worse for a child. They’re like labrats in there.”

Madison pauses, looking to the rooms too. “Damn,” she says after a few moments. “I never thought about it that way.”

"I just can't accept this as the pinnacle of human comfort. You know?"

Catherine pauses, lingers.

“But still,” she sighs, looking around. “A woman can dream for her Garden of Eden.”

“Of course,” Madison says, voice soft. “In the meantime, I’ll do whatever I can to create the next best thing.”

“I appreciate it,” Catherine says, quiet.

They walk in silence for the rest of the demonstration, and Catherine tries not to look at the rest of the Vault too much. When they reach the end of the hall, Catherine waits, holds back, lets Madison pass ahead. Madison looks to her, offers a smile – before she ducks her head and looks away, turning to push the vault door’s switch.

The Vault door opens, the process drawn out and flashing and full of grandeur, metal scraping metal, and Catherine can’t help but linger on what Madison said. Always knew she was the loyal type, but – it felt like she meant more than the standard post-war alliance.

“Thank _God_ , we’re out,” Madison sighs, stepping through, over the hatch. “So, trader mention anything interesting in this next wing?”

“Sure did,” Catherine says, smiling. “Follow me. It’s a real knockout.”


End file.
